I am 32 years old,
and I didn’t understand.
I didn’t understand why as a kid,
they mistreated me.
I am 32 years old
And I didn’t understand
Because I have suffered.
I am 32 years old
And I didn’t understand,
because they still consider me,
as if you were worth less,
as if you were
the village idiot.
I am 32 years old,
and I didn’t understand,
because I can’t be
what I want.
I can not have
What I want…
And, apparently,
not what others want.
I am 32 years old,
and they always crushed me,
everywhere.
Almost as if you were
A fucking monster.
I am 32 years old
And I didn’t understand love.
Maybe I looked for it the wrong way,
maybe it doesn’t exist,
but I, I keep looking for it.
I am 32 years old,
and I’m tired.
I didn’t understand maybe
nothing-
Maybe, just myself,
in those periods,
where I was not
full of problems,
of trauma,
of fears.
Kidnapped,
by the strength of the changes.
I am 32 years old,
I do not understand.
And maybe, I am writing for this,
my stories:
to try to understand it,
in a better way.
Italian version: https://loscrittorevolante.com/2021/07/05/poesianon-ho-capito/
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